


What Makes You Real

by SHCombatalade



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Male Character, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Movie Spoilers, Moving On, Present Tense, Single instance of homophobic slur, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1697360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHCombatalade/pseuds/SHCombatalade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s already halfway up the stairs but MJ’s response has him drawing up short, doubling back with disbelief because there is no way, no way, that ‘cover for me’ means ‘He’s off to don his spandex and save the city’ like MJ says. “What the f-oucault pendulum,” he admonishes; it’s not what he wants to say, not even close, but Aunt May is standing there all of five-foot-two with an eyebrow raised warningly.</p>
<p>“Oh,” MJ snorts over a forkful of potatoes, “you really think she didn’t know?” And yeah, he really really did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Makes You Real

**Author's Note:**

  * For [penandpage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penandpage/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Rony-Bear <3 <3 <3
> 
> Not necessary for the reading, but the song on repeat for writing this fic was Phillip Phillips' "Raging Fire"

He hasn’t slept more than a few hours at a time since Gwen died. When it’s not the nightmares that keep him awake, a single moment played over and over and over on repeat and he can’t make it stop ( _make it stop_ ), it’s the fear. The Green Goblin – Harry. The Green Goblin. They blur together in his head sometimes until he can’t tell them apart, the same way he can’t say the words anymore: I’m Spider-Man ( _am?_ ) – knows who he is. Knows his name, his family, where he lives. Knows his allergies and his favorite childhood games and that he was ( _is?_ ) afraid of seagulls. Knew Gwen too, and he’d – and she’d –

It’s not safe.

He lies in bed at night unable to sleep because every sound is a threat, and when he finally grows so weary of paranoia and not sleeping that he roams the house he finds danger hidden in every corner of every room. Sometimes he thinks he sees someone moving around the house with him, always just out of sight; sometimes it’s May. Mostly, it’s just his shadow.

May worries. She knows something is wrong (beyond the obvious, loss and grief and guilt and a young man now too old twice over) and she knows he’s not telling her, knows that whatever the truth is (or isn’t) it’s not what he answers. She worries and she frets and sometimes, some nights, he rises from his bed of restlessness to find her already there, wandering a similar path. She worries, and he worries, and they worry together and apart without ever really talking about it until one morning. One morning, when May brushes past him in the kitchen and tells him “Whatever it is, you can tell me” and for the first time he realizes that she’s always been the strong one.

“I’m thinking about getting my own place,” he blurts.

* * *

It’s not safe to leave her alone.

It’s less safe to live under her roof.

* * *

He finds an apartment; that’s the easy part.

There’s more than one moment of guilt when he realizes exactly how much it costs to live in New York nowadays, even for a cheap loft, and that’s not to mention the costs of food; he’d never considered the monetary value of a fridge that was always full. Of three meals a day. Of a growing boy who became a growing teenager and who must have nearly eat them out of house and home more than once. Some of it must show on his face because May slaps him in the back of the head when she passes by his computer, face stern, and tells him that he has never been a burden.

So he might not be a burden but the cost of living is, and he spares only a moment on the irony of moving out of his aunt’s house to protect her and in with a roommate. After all, what’s one more thing to feel guilty over?

* * *

He finds the ad on craigslist: _Wanted – quiet, clean, college student needs roommate asap._ Maybe it’s the way the ‘asap’ is bolded and underlined three times that has him sending a response; there’s similar urgency conveyed in his own posting.

Potential roommate suggests they meet at one of the students cafes around the NYU main campus, somewhere crowded and safe and Peter wants to laugh because he hadn’t even thought there could be any danger – something about the life he leads now has drastically skewed his perceptions of what is and isn’t a threat. The potential roommate is a little older than Peter, starting his senior year as opposed to Peter’s sophomore, and a little taller; he’s also a shock of blinding red hair and a smile that borders on over-enthusiasm. “Nice to meet you,” he says, but he doesn’t offer his hand. They remain wedged into the pockets of his jeans, same as Peter’s – Peter does it out of shyness. He wonders, curious, if potential roommate is the same. “I’m Martin John Watson,” he introduces himself with a sardonic grin, like he knows how awful it is.

And it is, Peter wants to say, it _is_ awful. Really awful, because Peter can all but _hear_ the hyphen that chains the two names together: Martin-John. “Nice to... Martin John,” and he knows he’s made a decision when the other man’s face pulls in playful disgust.

“I know, I know. It’s terrible. Call me MJ.” This time, like he’s also made up his mind on this, he does extend a hand. After a moment, Peter takes it.

“MJ,” he tries a responding smile, just to see if he remembers how to do it; it feels like maybe, _maybe_ he does. “I’m Peter.”

* * *

MJ’s boyfriend of four years – “ _Chris_ ,” he says with the same strangled inflection of adoration and loathing that he gets when he says the words ‘Honey Boo Boo, _god_ , I hate how much I care about their lives’ – had dumped him unexpectedly and unkindly, leaving his things in the hallway to be found when he returned from class last Tuesday. When he tells Peter the story, he sighs in one of those ‘what can you do’ sort of ways that is marginally less than convincing. “What about you?”

“My girlfriend,” he says around the knot in his throat. “Gwen. She died.”

“Shit, Pete,” and he’s startled when MJ pulls him in for a tight hug; the last person to touch him was Aunt May and he thinks Gwen before that, and she’s been gone almost eight months now. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t ask about it, and Peter thinks they might be friends one day.

* * *

They don’t see each other much for the first week or two – they both have classes, MJ more than Peter because he’s trying to graduate before the season picks up, and they both have jobs (well, MJ has a job. Peter says he has to help his aunt and instead slips out of their sixth story window) – and the roommate arrangement seems to be working only because it’s like they both live alone.

It’s laid-back, but it’s lonely.

One night Peter finds himself pacing the length of the windows, unable to sleep, and without the presence of family or furniture there’s a whole lot of shadows for his mind to run rampant in. “You either?” The voice startles him, so much so that it’s probably only his bare feet clinging to the floor that keep him from scrapping this whole secret identity thing to scramble into the rafters. It’s only MJ, wearing a grey t-shirt and a pair of plaid sleep pants and dark circles under his eyes, and he opens the fridge to dig around (not that there’s much in there, not really) for the milk. “Cereal,” he explains as he nudges the door closed with his foot. “The pathetic midnight snack of champions.”

Peter frowns; he’s some late-night mix of uncomfortable with other and desperate for their company, and even though he and MJ have shared maybe eight words since moving in together he still feels that there’s a chance they could get along if they just put in the time. “You’re not pathetic,” he says instead, unconvincingly, like he has to remember how to have a conversation that isn’t covering up the truth.

MJ shrugs in acceptance. “I’m a little bit pathetic. I’m pining away for a douche who had a new live-in boyfriend the day after we broke up.” When he sits at the table that pulls triple duty as dining table, kitchen counter, and only flat surface that isn’t the floor, Peter joins him; there’s a carton of milk and a box of cereal and no bowl to speak of, and he thinks if anything is pathetic it’s their lack of furnishings – they’ve reached a point that’s lower even than a bachelor apartment. Peter’s been calling it ‘penniless undergrad chic.’

“I’m... sorry?” His voice rises into a question because he’s still not sure how he’s supposed to feel about Chris – are they hoping to win him back? Hoping he begs for forgiveness? Hoping he falls off a br- ( _no_ )

“Shit,” MJ says. “Shit, shit, _shit_.” It’s the first time he’s ever heard the other man curse. “Peter, I – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be – you actually have a reason to be sad. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be” ( _please, don’t be_ ). He doesn’t talk about his feelings much ( _at all_ ) and he’s never wanted to make it into a competition over who had a shittier 2014, but MJ is looking at him like he doesn’t think he need to be strong anymore and Peter’s not sure if he’s ever been in the first place. If he’s learned anything at all from this secret identity thing, it’s how to deflect. “I ate all of the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms,” he admits.

* * *

The thing about MJ is –

The thing about MJ is that he’s happy.

Yeah, he’s sarcastic and foul-mouthed and jaded – he’d have to be, or Peter’s not sure they could be friends. He has a sense of self that is equal parts M. Night levels of superiority and truly self-deprecating, and a sense of humor that doesn’t do much to dissuade from the popular belief about gingers and souls. Sometimes he eats ice cream straight from the container, and sometimes he’s awake at 2am when the nightmares drive Peter from bed – and more often than not, the two are connected. Sometimes he spends longer than either of them acknowledge on Facebook glaring daggers at a profile he’s no longer friends with.

But MJ is truly, obnoxiously _optimistic_ about things.

“Whatever,” he says to his computer screen, slamming the laptop and leaping to his feet in the same graceful motion (Peter forgets, quite regularly, that he’s a trained dancer). “Fuck Chris. I don’t need him or his baggage.”

“Don’t even care,” he says over a mouthful of Cherry Garcia, passing the container across their sort-of-table to Peter (who doesn’t, not at 2am, remind MJ that he’s not supposed to have dairy). “I mean honestly.”

One day and countless number of assertions later and even Peter believes it.

* * *

He wakes up one morning in April and MJ is singing in the shower again.

“It’s 6am!” he calls plaintively through the door; it’s only Tuesday but he’s declared it Saturday – no work. No class. Nothing but sleep. Or, rather, he’d planned for nothing but sleep without planning for the daily bathroom best of Broadway and really, it’s his own fault. “Please? I’ll be your best friend,” he wheedles shamelessly, because it’s too early and they’re out of coffee and MJ is nauseatingly a morning person, while Peter is more definitely not.

“Too late for that, Petey!” MJ calls back, and Peter’s surprised to realize that he’s right.

* * *

The thing of it is, Peter can’t remember ever having a best friend before.

Well, not since –

No.

He doesn’t think about that anymore.

* * *

Christmas comes around and they’ve been living together for almost a year. MJ has family but they’re shitty (Peter had only met his father for thirty seconds and it had taken everything in him to not punch the guy in the face – probably something to do with the way he greeted MJ with a beer-smelling belch and an overly-loud “Oh look, it’s the faggot”), and Peter hadn’t hesitated before inviting him to spend the holiday with him and Aunt May. They’re just sitting down to an early dinner when the telephone rings, and it’s 5pm on the dot which means it must be Doris, the woman down the street – she calls at the same time every night, has for years. “Yes, Doris,” May answers the phone with a grimace; she’s never had the heart to tell the other woman that she’s not actually lonely and that she has no desire to join a knitting circle. “Merry Christmas to you, too. No, we’re just sitting down to supper. Yes, I’ve got my boys with me.”

MJ pauses with his glass halfway to his mouth, a look of bemused wonder on his face. “We’re her boys,” Peter stage whispers out of the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been claimed. Just go with it.”

He does.

* * *

MJ’s first real audition is for a small-stage, midday production of _Godspell_. Peter meets him outside the theatre with a tacky sign that says ‘I hope they like you more than I do’ in purple glitter and a stuffed bear that MJ accepts with a charmed, confused smile. “Is this bear wearing a cast?”

“Yes,” and Peter can only hope that he doesn’t look as embarrassed as he feels; he can feel heat flush his cheeks but it’s probably something he can blame on the weather, New York winter dragging through the spring as well. “You know... broken leg, or whatever. For luck.” MJ throws his head back and laughs through nearly his entire audition, somehow still managing to land a part in the chorus. He spends a total of four minutes on stage over the duration of the play’s nineteen-performance run.

Peter goes to every show.

* * *

The rainy season hits and Peter drags himself out to Queens to clean Aunt May’s gutters – she hasn’t asked for his help and she probably won’t; she’s stubborn but so is he, and he doesn’t intend to take ‘no thank you’ for an answer.

He sort of has to, though.

When he knocks on the door of his childhood home, it’s MJ who answers the door; he’s wearing an old pair of Peter’s sweatpants that are at least six inches too short for him and one of Aunt May’s knit sweaters and there’s still a leaf in his hair. “Don’t ask,” he glares, but Peter smiles because he can guess – they’re obviously not his clothes and his hair is damp and there’s a suspicious spot of mud on the back of his neck.

He grins. “You fell off the roof.” It’s worth it for the way that MJ winces as he punches his shoulder.

* * *

After that, it stops surprising him when he finds MJ and Aunt May spending time together; they both have the same horrible taste in reality television.

* * *

The first time MJ bursts into the bathroom without knocking, Peter can only wish he was doing something normal like brushing his teeth or masturbating in the shower or something – but no, not even close. Instead he’s standing in front of the too-small mirror juggling a first-aid kit, half in and half out of the costume. “Ohmygod,” MJ yelps, and Peter responds with one of his own. For a second of time they are frozen, staring at the other in disbelief. “You’re-”

“A fetishist!” he cries, jerking off the mask in what he only later considers to be the most counterintuitive action of the day. “You caught me! It’s a sex thing!”

The redhead lets out a long, low whistle before slowly backing through the door, eyes wide and a little bit wild. “Okaaay,” and he draws the word out to drown out the uncomfortable silence that clogs the air. “I’m gonna do us both a favor here and rewind this moment,” he says, slowly pulling the door closed behind him; Peter desperately wishes for the floor to swallow him whole. “And give you the opportunity to pretend you never said that.”

He stands frozen in place, terrified, gulping in deep breaths around worry and panic and the razor-edge decision that lies between keeping a secret and capitalizing on it before the door squeaks open again. “I-” He doesn’t even know what he was planning to say, only that he can’t say _anything_.

A suspicious sniffle has him finally looking up, but all he catches is a blur of red hair and damp eyes before MJ is pulling him into a bone-crushing – literally, and he is suddenly and achingly reminded of the injuries he had been trying to wrap only moments before: cracked ribs. A number of scrapes. Gravel in the palms of his hands and maybe his knees but he honestly hadn’t gotten that far yet. “Jesus, Pete.” He can count on one hand, one finger even, the number of times that MJ has called him ‘Pete’ – it was that first week, when he first talked about Gwen, and he’s not sure what it means that MJ is treating him like someone has died. It hurts to breathe.

“MJ,” he tries, and this time all he plans to say is a reminder that he is actively bleeding right now, but the other man pulls back like _he’s_ the one who’s been hit by a bus.

“You trip going down the stairs,” he says, and he is actually crying now; slow and silent tears make his voice sound thick and wet, and Peter hadn’t gotten far enough in processing the situation to start expecting any reactions but he’s fairly certain this wouldn’t have been anything he’d guess. “You can’t finish a movie if the dog gets hurt.” Both true, but he still doesn’t know where this is going. “Last week I watched the news and Doc Ock threw Spider-Man through a bus – _through_ a _bus_ – and,” he hugs him again, uncomfortably tight but Peter’s not callous enough to try and pull free right now. “You’re barely twenty-one and Spider-Man has been around for like four years now and-”

He tries a comforting smile, just to see if he’s still capable of doing it; it feels like maybe, _maybe_ he is. “Surprise?”

It doesn’t work like he’d hoped; instead of laughing, MJ chokes out something darker and sadder and squeezes him even tighter. “ _Thank you_ ,” he breathes against his ear, the words heavy with gratefulness, and with all the reactions he could have imagined this is none of them. When he freezes, stunned, it’s only because he’s not sure anyone has ever actually said the words to him – to Spider-Man – before.

* * *

They don’t talk about it again until the following week, when an open window allows the chorus of sirens entrance to the apartment; for once they’re both home at the same time, a lazy afternoon of watching TV in companionable silence, but the dissident noise of what sounds like half of the NYPD leave a flat note of discomfort to the quiet. Peter’s still caught in the etiquette of this ( _Do I excuse myself? Just get up and leave?_ ) when MJ tosses a pillow from the couch. “Go get ‘em, Tiger,” he says, the quiet hint of shyness to his speech like maybe he’s not sure how this is meant to play out either.

This time, when he loses his words, it’s not out of fear. “Yeah,” he manages around the weight of incredulity and admiration. “Yeah, okay.”

MJ sends him off with a sly smile and a shooing gesture. “Be safe. Save the world. Bring back pizza!”

* * *

The next time it happens they’re in Queens, at Aunt May’s for meatloaf night – Peter hears sirens and danger and he shoots MJ a pleading look across the table. “Cover for me,” he whispers, trusting those years of stage plays to give the other man even a passing ability to lie.

“Where’s Peter off to?” he hears Aunt May ask; there’s a small clatter of dishes that means she’s just beginning to dish them up, and he already hates whoever is out there because meatloaf night is something sacred.

He’s already halfway up the stairs but MJ’s response has him drawing up short, doubling back with disbelief because there is no way, _no way_ , that ‘cover for me’ means ‘He’s off to don his spandex and save the city’ like MJ says. “What the f-oucault pendulum,” he admonishes; it’s not what he wants to say, not even close, but Aunt May is standing there all of five-foot-two with an eyebrow raised warningly.

“Oh,” MJ snorts over a forkful of potatoes, “you really think she didn’t know?” And yeah, he really really _did_.

He has been Spider-Man since he was seventeen years old, and he has faced monsters – he should not be this scared of a sixty-six year old woman brandishing a spatula at him. “You watch yourself, Peter Parker. I may not be a brilliant scientist, but my mother didn’t raise any fools.” She looks at him like she’s _daring_ him to comment; wisely, he does not. “That’s what I thought,” and she reaches out with the hand that is not wielding utensils like weapons to pat his cheek. “I’ll keep a plate warmed up for you.”

* * *

The next meatloaf night there’s a robbery at the Federal Reserve and Peter’s a whole two hours late. When he makes it out to Queens he finds MJ and Aunt May, two slices each into a homemade pie, completely absorbed in _Antiques Roadshow_. “Hey,” he greets them wearily, dropping into the spot MJ makes for him on the couch.

“Eight-fifty,” Aunt May responds, eyeing the piece of jewelry on the screen.

“Food’s in the oven,” MJ translates.

* * *

Somewhere between a chilly January afternoon at a café and a still-warm August evening in Queens, Peter realizes that MJ’s become a constant in his life. He’s not sure when he started thinking of people as constants and not countdowns to inevitable loss, but it’s been nearly three years now and he’s never wondered if MJ is going to leave anytime soon. Perhaps more importantly, he realizes he doesn’t want him to. Leave, that is. Not now, not anytime soon. Preferably, not at all.

_Oh_.

He’s not sure if this counts as an epiphany or just the end of obliviousness.

* * *

Peter wakes up because MJ is singing in the shower again.

It’s nothing new; he claims that the acoustics in there are the absolute best, that his voice never sounds better and he’s practicing for his future adoring fans, and he sings every day. The only downside – or at least the most obvious one, because the novelty of shower serenades had long since worn off – is that it’s same song, _always_ the same song, day in and day out. The first time had been entertaining, the first week amusing. Then it was just a thing that happened and Peter did his best to ignore it (aside from the few times he had banged on the door, calling out a strangled “Really, MJ? Really? ‘Corner of the Sky?’ You are the most tragic of the tragically gay clichés!” and the song had barely wavered in laughter) but they’ve been living together for three years now, friends just a week or so shy of that, and for all that he’d never heard the song before he can actually perform it from memory now.

He hates this fucking song.

Like _really_ hates this song and he hates _The Bold and the Beautiful_ and he hates that he can’t imagine a single fucking day of his life without any of this.

Later, when MJ is sprawled on the couch with a script in hand, highlighter between his lips and he’s got that serious, stern-browed look on his face that he gets when he concentrates, Peter slides down to sit next to him. He doesn’t even look up. “You maybe wanna grab coffee?” he asks, because it’s been three years now and he’s got a hopeful, hushed optimism that it’s going to be quite a few more.

MJ flips the page with a practiced motion, the paper _swooshing_ ever so slightly. “Anytime, Pete.”

He waits maybe a minute, not even sure he knows what he’s waiting _for_ , before he can’t take it, any of it, any longer. He’s completely relaxed, melted almost bonelessly into the couch but he rolls his neck so his head is laying to one side, eyes perfectly angled to catch MJ’s over the top of the page. The audition is tomorrow and he’s been going on about how much he really wants this part for nearly a week now; he doesn’t look up. “I wasn’t actually asking if you wanted coffee,” he clarifies finally, because he’s about ninety-nine percent sure that MJ didn’t pick up on his meaning. That’s not to mention the only sixty percent sure he is that MJ is even listening. “A date. It was a date. ‘Coffee’ means ‘date.’”

MJ wordlessly flips to the following page, only the slice of paper through air to break the stillness, and this time the corner catches Peter on the nose. It’s an acknowledgement. Slowly, eyes still glued to the page and the words printed across it, he takes the highlighter – purple. It’s his least favorite color but for some reason it’s the one he uses for the parts he wants most – and sets it on the floor at his feet. “Well that’s good to know,” he confirms as he swings his legs up to drape across Peter’s lap, “Because I wasn’t actually saying yes to coffee.”


End file.
